If Evelyn did happen to be in the library, work would cease for the evening as they…discussed the exhibition. YetAdvantages of Oats in a Wet Climatecould be the answer to all his woes.
Brusquely, he turned heel and headed back to his desk, straightened his chair, seated himself, replaced the candle and shuffled papers.
Although… His hands stilled. Surely he deserved some respite after all these years of endeavour? And he stood again.
Then sat down.
What was the matter with him?
Dukes did not hem and haw. They reached decisions and stuck to them, rather like his buckskin breeches after the rainstorm.
No. No more faffing about. He’d finish reading both reports, quaff one and a half brandies and then retire abed once the hour of midnight had struck.
The Thing stood, arched his back, stalked to Evelyn’s scarf, clawed it, circled five times and snuggled down within its warmth.
Lucky bugger.
* * *
Dusk leisurely enveloped London,the bells for eight having sung their last chime.
No moon escaped the cloud to lighten Evelyn’s harried pacing in front of the cherry laurel. No stars to gaze upon her frowning countenance.
A dull glow had shone behind the curtained French doors of the study, and as she’d passed, she’d pondered if the duke’s head was bent low over enthralling reports or engrossing ledgers.
Noise suffused the evening sky – carriages on the cobbles of Grosvenor, horses snickering in the mews, and pots and pans banging from the basement kitchens.
After a fulsome dinner of pasties and beef in red wine sauce followed by sponge cake, Artemisia had fallen into a deep sleep, her body healing with the care and luxury, the cough lessening, her cheeks filling.
The future still beckoned unknown and frightening, but now at least Evelyn had employment with Lady Owlswick. Not in the fresh countryside as she’d once hoped, but Artemisia would be warm and safe, and maybe in time, they could save a little for that dreamed-of cottage.
Hastening to the seclusion of the pear tree for her meeting, she stumbled into something warm and substantial; a broad hand rested on her shoulder and she gazed up.
“Yer got the diamonds, wench?”
Filgrave’s thug remained cast in shadow but she could smell the alleyways upon him – sour beer and unwashed clothes, an odour that once smelled was never forgotten.
Her wrist was clasped in a brutal grip.
“Or yer got sommit a bit softer fer me?” He chuckled “The gaffer’s all agog to hear how yer gonna repay him.”
Evelyn dug her nails into fleshy skin and then wrenched away as he flinched.
“Hoity toity, witch, come ’ere.”
Stepping out of reach, she steeled her shoulders. “You can tell Mr Filgrave,” she whispered harshly, “that I will not be stealing any diamonds, or be blackmailed into selling my sister or myself.” She held out her last shilling. “I will pay no more than this per week as originally agreed. I have employment and can–”
His hefty paw seized her waist. “The gaffer’s gonna wanna hear this fer himself.” Fingers tugged at her skirts. “But he did say I could break yer in a little.”
She opened her mouth to scream, not caring if she roused the entire square, but a gritty palm crashed upon her lips.
“No yelling,” he growled low. “Mr Filgrave don’t like wenches that hie off and cheat him, but if you bring the nobs down on him too… He might have to silence the lot of yer.”
Evelyn did indeed keep silent but not for that reason.
No, it was the blade held to her stomach.
One slip and she would never see sunrise again.
